Kristin Hannah

About the Author

Kristin Hannah is the bestselling author of On Mystic Lake, Angel Falls, Home Again, Summer Island, Distant Shores, Between Sisters, and The Things We Do for Love. She lives with her husband and son in the Pacific Northwest.

Books by Kristin Hannah

Author Essay

Of all the books I’ve written, I can honestly say that Between Sisters was the most fun. I think it’s because of the powerful emotions that connect sisters to each other. No one can make you laugh more quickly or break your heart as easily. How can you ever get "one up" on the girl who remembers how you looked in eighth grade when you still wore braces and sported a unibrow? My sister still teases me about the dress I wore to the Junior Prom (she remembers it, of course, because she was hanging out the bedroom window singing, Here Comes The Bride, to my date as he walked up to the front door). In Between Sisters, I got to dive into sisterhood by telling the story of two women who have been estranged for more than two decades and who, unexpectedly, find themselves drawn back together in a time of almost unbearable sadness and exquisite joy. The following excerpt is taken from early in the book, when the younger sister, Claire, who is a single mother, meets the love of her life long after she’d stopped looking for him. Claire is positively swept away by her emotions. Meghann, her hot shot divorce attorney older sister, is not so easily convinced…especially when she learns of Bobby’s questionable past. I hope you all enjoy reading this novel as much as I enjoyed writing it.

With love and peace,Kristin Hannah

CHAPTER SEVEN

Their first gathering at lake chelan had been in celebration.Nineteen eighty-nine. The year Madonna urged people to expressthemselves and Jack Nicholson played the Joker and the firstpieces of the Berlin Wall came down. More important, it was theyear they all turned twenty-one. There had been five of them then.Best friends since grade school.

That first get-together had happened by accident. The girls hadpooled their money to give Claire a weekend in the honeymooncabin for her birthday. At the time—in March—she’d been headover heels in love with Carl Eldridge. (The first of many head-over-heels-in-love relationships that turned out to be a plain old kick inthe head.) By mid-July, on the designated weekend, Claire had beenout of love, alone, and more than a little depressed. Never one towaste money, she’d gone on the trip by herself, intending to sit onthe porch and read.

Just before dinnertime of the first day, a battered yellow FordPinto had pulled into the yard. Her best friends had spilled out of thecar and run across the lawn, laughing, holding two big jugs of margaritamix. They’d called their visit a love intervention, and it hadworked. By Monday, Claire had remembered who she was and whatshe wanted out of life. Carl Eldridge had most definitely not been“the one.”

Every year since then, they’d managed to come back for a week.Now, of course, it was different. Gina and Claire each had a daughter;Karen had four children, aged eleven to fourteen; and Charlottewas trying desperately to conceive.

In the past few years, their parties had quieted; less tequila andcigarettes came out of suitcases these days. Instead of getting dressedup and going to Cowboy Bob’s Western Roundup to slam tequila andline-dance, they put the kids to bed early, drank glasses of whitewine, and played hearts at the round wooden table on the porch.They kept a running score for the week. The winner got the keys tothe honeymoon cottage for the next year.

Their vacation had evolved into a sort of slow, lazy merry-go-roundrhythm. They spent their days by the lake, stretched out onred-and-white-striped beach towels or sitting on battered old beachchairs, with a portable radio set up on the picnic table. They alwayslistened to the oldies station, and when a song from the eightiescame on, they’d jump up and dance and sing along. On hot days—like this one had been—they spent most of their time in the lake,standing neck-deep in the cool water, their faces shielded by floppyhats and sunglasses. Talking. Always talking.

Now, finally, the weather was perfect. The sky was a bright seam-lessblue, and the lake was like glass. The older kids were in thehouse, playing crazy eights and listening to Willie’s ear-splittingmusic, probably talking about the latest, grossest R-rated movie thateveryone else’s mothers allowed their children to see. Alison andBonnie were pedaling a water bike in the cordoned-off section of thelake. Their giggles could be heard above the others.

Karen sat slouched in her chair, fanning herself with a pamphletfrom the water-slide park. Charlotte, completely protected from thesun by a floppy white hat and a diaphanous, three-quarter-sleevedcover-up, was reading the latest Kelly Ripa book club choice and sippinglemonade.

Gina leaned sideways and opened the cooler, rooting noisilythrough it for a Diet Coke. When she found one, she pulled it outand snapped it open, taking a long drink before she shut the cooler.“My marriage ends and we’re drinking Diet Coke and lemonade.When Karen’s dickwad first husband left, we slammed tequila anddanced the macarena at Cowboy Bob’s.”

“That was my second husband, Stan,” Karen said. “When Aaronleft, we ate those pot brownies and went skinny-dipping in the lake.”“My point remains,” Gina said. “My crisis is getting the SesameStreet treatment. You got Animal House.”

“Not since we started dragging around these undersize humans,”Karen pointed out. “It’s hard to rock and roll with a kid on yourback.”

Charlotte looked out at the lake, to where the little girls werepedaling their water bike. Her smile slowly faded. That familiar sadnesscame into her eyes again. No doubt she was thinking about thebaby she wanted so much.

Claire glanced at her friends. It startled her for a moment, as itsometimes did on these trips, to see their thirty-five-year-old selves.This year, more than any other, they seemed quieter. Older, even.Women on the edge of a sparkling lake who had too much on theirminds.

That would never do. They came to Lake Chelan to be theiryounger, freer selves. Troubles were for other latitudes.

Claire pushed herself up on her elbows. The scratchy cotton ofher beach towel seemed to bite into her sunburned forearms.

“Willie’s fourteen this year, right?”

Karen nodded. “He’s starting high school in September. Can youbelieve it? He still sleeps with a stuffed animal and forgets to brushhis teeth. The ninth-grade girls look like Solid Gold Dancers nextto him.”

“Just keep walking.” Gina leaned close to Claire and said, “She’slike a car in the ice. If she stops, we’ll never get her going again.”They were standing across the street from Cowboy Bob’s when ithit them.

Claire was the first to speak. “It’s not even dark out.”

“As party animals, we’ve lost our touch,” Charlotte said.

“Shit.” This from Gina.

Claire refused to be thwarted. So what if they looked like sororitygirls amid the professional drinkers that populated a place like thisin the early evening? They were here to have a good time and CowboyBob’s was their only choice.

“Come on, ladies,” she said, storming forward.

Her friends fell into line behind her. Heads held high, theymarched into Cowboy Bob’s as if they owned the place. A thick grayhaze hung along the ceiling, drifting in thin strands between the over-headlights. There were several regulars along the bar, their hunchedbodies planted like soggy mushrooms on the black bar stools. Severalmulticolored neon beer signs flickered in the gloomy darkness.

Claire led the way to a round, battered table near the emptydance floor. From here they had an unobstructed view of the band—which was now noticeably absent. A whiny Western song played onthe jukebox.

They had barely made it to their seats when a tall, thin waitresswith leathery cheeks appeared beside them. “What c’n I get fory’all?” she asked, wiping down the table with a gray rag.

Gina ordered a round of margaritas and onion rings, which werepromptly served.

“God it feels good to get out,” Karen said, reaching for her drink.“I can’t remember the last time I went out without having to doenough preplanning to launch an air strike.”

“Amen to that,” Gina agreed. “Rex could never handle gettinga sitter. Not even to surprise me with a dinner date. The surprise wasalways: We’re going out to dinner. Could you plan it? Like it takesovaries to pick up the phone.” At that, her smile slipped. “It alwaysbugged the hell out of me. But it’s a pretty small grievance, isn’t it?Why didn’t I notice that before?”

Claire knew that Gina was thinking about the changes that werecoming in her new, single life. The bed that would be half emptynight after night. She wanted to say something, offer a comfort ofsome kind, but Claire knew nothing of marriage. She’d dated plentyin the last twenty years, and she’d fallen into pseudo-love a fewtimes. But never the real thing.

She’d figured she was missing out, but just now, as she saw theheartbreak in Gina’s eyes, she wondered if maybe she’d been lucky.

Claire raised her glass. “To us,” she said in a firm voice. “To theBluesers. We made it through junior high with Mr. Kruetzer, highschool with Miss Bass the Wide Ass, through labors and surgeries,weddings and divorces. Two of us have lost our marriages, one hasn’tbeen able to get pregnant, one of us has never been in love, and a fewyears ago, one of us died. But we’re still here. We’ll always be here forone another. That makes us lucky women.”

They clinked their glasses together.

Karen turned to Gina. “I know it feels like you’re cracking apart.But it gets better. Life goes on. That’s all I can say.”

Charlotte pressed a hand on Gina’s but said nothing. She was theone of them who knew best that sometimes there were no words tooffer.

Claire changed the subject. At first, it was awkward, a conversationon a one-way road trying to change directions, but gradually,they found their rhythm. They returned to the old days and everythingmade them laugh. At some point, they ordered a plate of nachos.By the time the second order of food came, the band hadstarted. The first song was a bone-jarringly loud rendition of “Friendsin Low Places.”

By the time the band got around to Alan Jackson’s “Here in theReal World,” the place was wall-to-wall people. Almost everyonewas dressed in fake leather Western wear. A group was line-dancingin a thigh-slappin’ way.

“Are you kidding? I’d love to.” She plopped her purse onto herchair and followed Claire to the dance floor. All around them, couplesdressed in denim were dancing in patterns. A woman pirouettedpast them, mouthing 1-2-3 along the way. She clearly needed allof her concentration skills to keep up with her partner’s moves.

Claire let the music pour over her like cool water on a hot summer’sday. It refreshed her, rejuvenated her. The minute she startedto move in time with it, to swing her hips and stamp her feet andclap her hands, she remembered how much she loved this. Shecouldn’t believe that she’d let so many quiet years accumulate.

The music swept her away and peeled back the layer of mother-hoodyears. She and Charlotte became their teenage selves again,laughing, bumping hips, singing out loud to each other. The nextsong was “Sweet Home Alabama,” and they had to stay for that one.Next came “Margaritaville.”

By the time the band took a break, Claire was damp with perspirationand out of breath. A tiny headache had flared behind herleft eye; she stuck a hand in her pocket and found an Excedrin.

Charlotte pushed the hair out of her eyes. “That was great.Johnny and I haven’t danced since . . .” She frowned. “Jeez. Maybenot since our wedding. That’s what happens when you try like hellto get pregnant. Romance hits the road.”

Claire laughed. “Believe me, honey, it’s after you get knocked upthat romance changes ZIP codes. I haven’t had a decent date inyears. Come on. I’m so dehydrated I feel like a piece of beef jerky.”

Char nodded toward the back. “I need to use the rest room first.Order me another margarita. And tell Karen this round is on me.”

“Sure thing.” Claire started to head for the table, then rememberedthe aspirin in her fist. She went to the bar instead and askedfor a glass of tap water.

When the water came, she swallowed the single pill, then turnedaway from the bar. As she started to head back to the table, she sawa man walk onto the stage. He carried a guitar—a regular, old-fashionedguitar that didn’t plug in or amp out. The rest of the bandhad left the stage, but their instruments were still there.

He sat down easily on a rickety bar stool. One black cowboy bootwas planted firmly on the floor, the other rested on the stool’s bottomrung. He wore a pair of faded, torn jeans and a black T-shirt. Hishair was almost shoulder length, and shone blond in the fluorescentoverhead lighting. He was looking down at his guitar, and though ablack Stetson shielded most of his face, Claire could make out thestrong, high bones that defined his cheeks.

“Wow.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a manwho was so good-looking.

Not in Hayden, that was for sure.

Men like him didn’t show up in backwater towns. This was a factshe’d learned long ago. The Toms, the Brads, the Georges of thisworld lived in Hollywood or Manhattan, and when they traveled,they stood behind blank-eyed bodyguards in ill-fitting black suits.They talked about meeting “real people,” but they never actually didit. She knew this because they’d once filmed an action movie inSnohomish. Claire had begged her father to take her down to watchthe filming. Not one of the stars had spoken to the locals.

The man leaned toward the microphone. “I’m gonna fill in whilethe band takes a short break. I hope y’all don’t mind.”

A round of lackluster applause followed his words.

Claire pushed through the crowd, elbowing past a young man inskintight Wrangler jeans and a Stetson as big as a bathtub.

She halted at the edge of the dance floor.

He strummed a few notes on the guitar and started to sing. Atfirst, his voice was uncertain, almost too soft to be heard above theraucous, booze-soaked din.

She felt ridiculously conspicuous, standing there in front of thecrowd, only a few feet away from him, but she couldn’t move,couldn’t look away.

He looked up.

In the smoky darkness, with a dozen people crammed in besideher, Claire thought he was looking at her.

Slowly, he smiled.

Once, years ago, Claire had been running along the dock at LakeCrescent behind her sister. One minute, she’d been laughing and upright;the next second, she was in the freezing cold water, gasping forbreath and clawing her way to the surface.

That was how she felt right now.

“I’m Bobby Austin,” he said softly, still looking at her. “This songis for The One. Y’all know what I mean. The one I’ve been lookin’for all my life.”

His long, tanned fingers strummed the guitar strings. Then hestarted to sing. His voice was low and smoky, seductive as hell, andthe song had a sad and haunting quality that made Claire think ofall the roads she hadn’t taken in her life. She found herself swayingin time to the music, dancing all by herself.

When the song ended, he set down the guitar and stood up. Thecrowd clapped politely, then turned away, heading back to theirpitchers of beer and buffalo wings.

He walked toward Claire. She couldn’t seem to move.

Directly in front of her he stopped. She fought the urge to lookbehind her, to see if he was actually looking at someone else.

When he didn’t say anything, she said, “I’m Claire Cavenaugh.”

A smile hitched one side of his mouth, but it was strangely sad.“I don’t know how to say what I’m thinking without sounding likean idiot.”

Claire’s heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy. “What do youmean?”

He closed the distance between them, small as it had been. Nowhe was so near she could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, and thetiny half-moon-shaped scar at the edge of his upper lip. She couldsee, too, that he trimmed his hair himself; the ends were uneven andsloppy.

“I’m The One,” he said softly.

“The one what?” She tried to smile. “The way? The light? Thereis no way to Heaven but through you?”

“No joking. I’m the one you’ve been looking for.”She ought to have laughed at him, told him she hadn’t heardthat corny a pick-up line since the year she tried shaping her eye-browswith a Lady Bic.

She was thirty-five years old. Long past her believing-in-love-at-first-sight years. All of that was what she meant to say, the responseshe framed in her head. But when she opened her mouth, she heardher heart speak. “How do you know that?”

“Because, I’ve been lookin’ for you, too.”

Claire took a tiny step backward; just far enough so that shecould breathe her own air.